


dastardly and muttley (or, a decidedly canine dating service)

by scrapbullet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is Norfolk rain, Arthur, Eames and a dog with more intelligence than is warranted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dastardly and muttley (or, a decidedly canine dating service)

It starts like this; there's this little place in Norfolk that Eames calls home, calls _Norwich_ , a teeming town not two hours on the train away from London and half an hour in his shitty Ford Fiesta away from the lush green countryside. The flat is a pokey one-bedroom close to the main road into the city centre, a fifteen minute walk at most whenever he feels the urgent need to unwittingly splurge money he doesn't have. It has four walls, a ceiling and a floor and that's all he gives a damn about, even if the rent costs him an arm and a fucking leg and the radiators rumble unhappily as if they're alive. It's home.

When it rains, it pours, and when it doesn't the grey seeps through a bright summer morning like an itchy jumper being pulled over his eyes; unwanted and an irritation. His coffee is vile and the Daily Mail is full of political rubbish – a coalition government, _really?_ Clearly he's been out of touch for quite some time – but it's a Sunday and the cold, wet nose of his black Labrador nudges insistently against his bare calf, whining pitifully in its throat. Its eyes turn round and wet and _bloody hell_ who can resist those puppy dog eyes? Really?

So he takes the little bastard for a walk.

And then it rains.

Fantastic.

With no umbrella and no coat to speak of Eames is soaked through to the bone – though Loki seems to be having the time of his life, dragging him through puddles with all the boundless enthusiasm of a young pup – when it happens.

Some might even call it _fate_.

Eames? Isn't that stupid.

Loki has a mind of his own. Eames had known that from the first moment he'd laid eyes on the tiny scruff of a thing swamped in a large wicker basket; runt of the litter and all the more vivacious for it, but how the hell he'd managed to get off of his leash is another thing entirely. With his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth one might think the black Labrador is _laughing_ at him, mouth pulled wide in a doggy grin that mocks him even as Eames grips the empty leash with utter despair.

 _Right here, right now... really?_

Loki's drenched tail wags as he cocks his head, barks once as if to proudly state his imminent departure, _and is off_. Like a shot he darts down the pavement, darting through legs and winding through traffic, leaving Eames standing there, in the pouring rain, like a dumbstruck fool.

Thus begins the epic chase.

Well... not really. Once around the park and back isn't exactly epic.

S'bloody tiring, though.

The rain has since stopped when Eames finds him, sprawled out on the muddy ground at the feet of a man that can only be described as deflated, a scowl fixed upon an attractively angled face. Dirty paw prints adorn an obviously expensive Belstaff wool trench coat, surprisingly dry considering the weather (though the umbrella might be a bit of a giveaway) but Loki pays it no mind, staring up at Arthur with adoration in his eyes and an all too Eamesian flirtation; _well, fancy seeing you here?_

Suffice to say it isn't exactly reciprocated.

"Loki," Eames huffs, and braces his hands on his knees, glaring at the mischievous mutt with no real heat, "you little bastard." Loki merely looks at him, yips, and proceeds to nose Arthur's crotch, much to his chagrin.

But of course, how could he not see? Arthur, Point Man extraordinaire, soaked and scowling in the middle of a Norfolk park in a summer storm. Coincidence?

Regardless, Eames isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

" _Arthur!_ How fortuitous to meet you this on this fine morning." Eames exclaims, bowing theatrically whilst simultaneously trying to push aside the wet mess of his hair. He fails. Miserably.

Fortuitous. Right.

"I wasn't aware you had a dog," Arthur states with obvious disdain, brushing the probing nose aside with a stiff hand slick with rainwater. Contrary to such treatment the black Labrador bestows a wet, affectionate lick to the back of it; a standard Loki greeting that doesn't quite go to plan, for that scowl merely deepens and threatens to overtake what is usually quite the gorgeous face.

 _Careful, love, if the wind changes your face will stay that way._

Eames smirks, amused. "Why yes, yes I do. Charming, isn't he?"

"Quite. Maybe in future you should, I don't know... keep him on his leash?"

The empty leash is raised, a token of his failure. "That would be a bit difficult; he's something of a Houdini."

There is a momentary pause, whereupon Loki grows bored of the conversation and snuffles along the ground looking for a pint-sized adventure. A slick, black centipede slides over wet grass and Loki nudges it with a curiosity that killed the cat, but it doesn't hold his attention for very long before he bounds off, paws scrabbling for purchase in the dirt. Eames watches him, amused.

"And what brings you to these parts then, darling? A job, perhaps? Surely something has caught the attention of that bewitching mind of yours." Eyes slake over a designer-clad form, lingering on shapely thighs, making it abundantly clear that he may as well be fucking Arthur with his gaze.

"Nothing that would require your _expertise_ ," Arthur retorts with characteristic venom.

Eames presses a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. "You make it sound like such an insult. You do wound me so."

"...Bully for you."

 _Well. How puerile. Two can play at that game._

Except he doesn't exactly get the chance to continue their witty repartee. How _unfortunate_.

Loki intervenes. Eames suspects the little bastard to be something of a matchmaker.

With a joy that only an exuberant pup can feel he jumps up, paws flat against Eames' back, barking and demanding attention at the top of his voice. That's all well and good, fine, really, if it were not for the fact that it pushes Eames forward, slams his body into Arthur's and sends them flying, promptly ending up sprawled on the muddy ground. Chest to chest and nose to nose the fine angles of the Point Man's face are thrown into sharp relief - _and what a pretty face it is_ , Eames notes - even as the air is veritably knocked out of them both in a sharp rush of sound.

Loki bounds around behind them barking enthusiastically, his tail wagging nine-to-the-dozen.

Eames always knew he loved that dog for a reason.

Arthur however, doesn't look quite as pleased.

Resting an elbow against the sodden soil Eames shifts so as to make himself quite comfortable, straddling slender hips with a casual air of nonchalance. "Has someone stolen your smile, my dear? I suspect foul play."

Arthur's face is a picture of unrestrained irritation, palms pushing in a futile effort against the immovable Eames. "Piss. Off."

 _Well. How rude!_ "Hm. Your vocabulary leaves a lot to be desired."

"Can you even _spell_ vocabulary, Mr Eames?"

Eames scoffs, not at all bothered by such a low blow. Instead he looks down at Arthur with lecherous intent, tracing his fingers along the contours of that handsome face. "Let me reiterate; your wit is rather acerbic this fine morning, would you like me to kiss your frown upside down?"

Flinching Arthur responds with a glare that could skin a tiger, though an expression of contemplation gradually blooms upon his features. There is silence and the lazy drift of hot breath across Eames' cheek as icy fingers follow in their wake, drifting aimlessly before resting against a plush lower lip, faintly trembling with a surprising intensity. Arthur looks at Eames with such utter _concentration_ that one might think he'll have an aneurysm from thinking so hard, his eyes dark with some incomprehensible light.

They kiss.

It's not Austin, and it's not Bronte. There aren't any fireworks that light up the sky and there are no breathy whispers of romance spoken softly against their lips. Arthur's mouth is chapped and there's entirely too much teeth but it's _perfect_ nonetheless, a sweet slip-slide of tongue that lingers far too long for it to be considered anything but deliberate. When they part it is to the harsh pant of breath that hovers between them in a faint fog in the humid summer air, and Eames laughs, oddly giddy.

Arthur smirks, satisfied. "Does that answer your question?"

"Not quite darling, perhaps another...?"

And all he gets is a clod of mud in the face for his efforts. _Typical_.


End file.
